He Tells Himself A Better Story
by EmpatheticVoice
Summary: Sherlock tells himself a better story. Not beta read.


**_A/N: Please forgive any grammar or punctuation mistakes as it is not beta read._**

 ** _Disclaimer: Characters Do Not Belong To Me._**

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Sherlock Holmes was always an emotional being, although he denied it for most of his life.

He was a man who felt too much, and hid his affliction under the title of a "high-functioning sociopath." Those closest, who truly knew him, knew differently, people such as John Watson and Molly Hooper. They were a fiercely loyal to each other. Sherlock had risked his life several times to save his best friend, while Molly saved his several times over, doing whatever he asked without much complaint or question.

Despite his brother's belief that "caring is not an advantage," the consulting detective seems to find advantage in being cared for. Caring in Sherlock's case, can be crippling, such as it was in the case of Victor Trevor, Sherlock's childhood best friend.

He had cried and screamed for days, not knowing what his sister had done to him. Eventually, he fell into a near catatonic state, staring at the walls in his room, eating very little when forced. Much like Victor's parents, he too, had lost so much.

His parents were frantic.

Mycroft was concerned.

Eurus only kept singing that song over and over, taunting him.

Sherlock curled in on himself, the frustration of not knowing, not being able to solve the puzzle of the disappearance of his best friend, caused him physical pain in his head and stomach.

Eurus was unsatisfied by the effect. With his best friend gone, Sherlock would naturally be forced to play with her now.

He did not.

She tried to burn the house down.

Their house. The place they loved the most.

They were lucky they were able to get out with their lives. Mycroft half-carried, half-dragged his younger brother out of the blaze to their relieved parents. The fire was not easily contained, as it consumed over three-fourths of the building.

Decisions were made.

Eurus was taken away.

Sherlock still didn't move.

It would be Mycroft who would save him again, inadvertently giving his younger brother the tools to cope. He sat next his brother on his bed in Uncle Rudi's house.

"Sherlock, I know it's been difficult but you have to move on. You will have to rejoin society eventually." Mycroft said.

Sherlock was silent.

"If the reality is too much for you, you can tell yourself a better story."

A seed had been planted. It had taken root. He took the words to heart.

His best friend, became man's best friend. He always wanted a dog.

Redbeard became a beautiful Irish setter with reddish-brown fur. They loved to play pirates. He was the best first mate.

Just enough truth to make the lie believable.

He could create a new world, a new reality.

A world without Eurus.

For the first time in a long time, he seemed cognizant. His gaze was focused.

He started moving, eating, taking care of himself again, but he was different.

Much more reserved. His incandescent personality was much more…cooler.

His parents were relieved to see their son finally emerge from his depression. They did not think to question the reason behind it.

Mycroft did.

Sherlock had completely erased Eurus from his active memory. Only echos of her remained, as her influence could never fully be deleted. He reformatted Victor into a beloved pet. This new perception held together by a delicate balance. A balance Mycroft felt an obligation to protect.

With the suppression of sentiment, Sherlock's intellect was pushed forward like never before. Unbalanced by his emotions, his thoughts sped up like a racehorse. At certain times, the detective's thought processes even excelled even his, the elder Holmes would loath to admit. What little relieve his state of mind could provide was often supplemented chemically by the use of drugs, leading to Sherlock battling his addictions in and out of rehab. Much like the time of the fire, Mycroft pulled him out of harm's way, only instead of escaping the flames of their home, he was wading in vomit while Sherlock detoxed from a near overdose in whatever doss he found himself in.

Throughout all this, Sherlock Holmes did maintain an overly strong sense of justice. Clearly, it was a remnant he kept after injustice of Victor Trevor's death. Was it the influence of drowned Redbeard that motivated Sherlock's interest in the drowned swimmer, Carl Powers, in his first case? Taking cases provided the man with an outlet, more satisfying than what drugs could provide. Here he was doing something, being useful, making a difference, not being immobilized by feelings. Making up the occupation of consulting detective, the younger Holmes started building a life again.

Time passes, and Sherlock's world slowly becomes bigger with people added to it. He seems to collect people like strays, first Mrs. Hudson, then Lestrade and Molly. It isn't until John Watson is added into the mix that reassures Mycroft that Sherlock has moved on, being able to have a best friend again with the past still buried deep underneath. But the past never stays behind for long. It catches up first in the form of James Moriarty, then by Eurus, herself. Sherlock weathers the revelation better than expected, having his bubble of perception bursted by actual reality. It is with the love and support of his friends, he is able to navigate through and not fall back as he once was.

There was a moment during the Eurus debacle, that it seemed Sherlock became the emotional pre-Redbeard Sherlock, he once was. It was during "I love you" trial, when Sherlock claimed that he won the trial by making Molly Hooper say those achingly emotional words. Eurus mocked him, claiming he had lost, his intellect hindered by drowning in emotional context. The pain of not being smart enough to save someone he loves, once again, was more than the man could bear. Unconsciously compounded, by the pain of Redbeard, Sherlock acted out violently, destroying the wooden coffin with his bare hands, energetically releasing several years of rage and frustration. Again, it was John Watson who helped is friend to find his center again. He reminded the detective of the state of mind he needed to maintain for their survival. Sherlock understood, and repeated the word that had been his mantra since the whole ordeal began in the form of a question.

"Soldiers?" He asked.

"Soldiers." John affirmed.

After Eurus was returned to Sherrinford, and 221B was rebuilt, Sherlock sees Molly quite often. When she enters the doorway of Bakers Street, his expression softens as she smiles at him radiantly. Since he has become more aware and attuned to his own emotions, he notices a sense of peace fall over him. His mind does not seem to race around irritably as much anymore. Oh, he is still the annoying git, Sherlock Holmes will always be that, but it seems he is less manic, without having to deal with a lot of repressed anxiety.

With very little to come between them, Sherlock finds he likes to experiment with himself with how feels. He finds that he likes her to be around when he is not busy. He finds he can't get enough smell of her, the taste of her lips and skin, That she is beautiful wrapped up in nothing but his sheet, that he is able to make her smile and laugh at bad jokes, that they can seamlessly work together at home and in the lab, that she feels comfortable enough to leave a few of her atrocious jumpers with him. Jumpers that could be considered fashion disasters but are beautiful because they are full of Molly-ness.

In his mind, he sees all of this. She is always with him. She had not left London to get away from him.

The future is lovely, exciting adventure. They had each other. They would never have to be alone.

In his mind, Molly would always forgive him of the hurt he had caused her. She would have given him a chance to explain everything. She would never refuse to see him.

They had all the time in the world. But it would no longer be wasted. It wasn't too late.

She belonged to him. His Molly would not have ever left his side.

But sometimes, what we think with our minds does not coincide with the truth of reality.

For a man like Sherlock Holmes, when the truth is too painful to bear, he tells himself a better story.

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 _ **A/N: Since Molly is not a part of the traditional Doyle canon. I wanted to write something that respects that.**_


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